


When My Time Comes Around

by yobas



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Romance, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, No Spoilers, Not Canon Compliant, Prosthesis, Romance, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 02:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yobas/pseuds/yobas
Summary: There’s a kind of possessiveness bubbling up, something Sal had never cared to acknowledge. It wasn’t the first time he felt this clawing jealousy in relation to his best friend. Admittedly, it had been a while since it had wracked him so strongly, enough to have his whole body feeling tense and on the verge of shaking. He didn’t like it, he didn’t want to think about it any longer. He wishes he hadn’t found the paper.





	1. Verse One

**Author's Note:**

> When I started this, I didn't intend for it to be so long... So I'm splitting it into two chapters, posting them back to back. So please enjoy the fic in full, and be sure to give the referenced song a good listen or two. Or three or four. Or listen to it for the next few days on repeat, as I have. 
> 
> The song is Hozier's "Work Song," a beautiful piece I strongly connect to this pairing, especially when taking all of the canon content into consideration :') Because the canon content destroys me I really just wanted to write something sweet for these two. Enjoy.

It had taken Sal way too long to figure out why the treehouse felt different today, but after scanning the small room for the hundredth time probably, he figured it out. He waits for the current song blasting through the speakers to fade out. But reaching to hit pause before the next one can start up, the old plastic boombox button makes that satisfying _ click _ sound as it’s hit. “I didn’t know you had an acoustic guitar.”

Larry’s been spacing out, back flat to the wooden floor of the treehouse as he more or less stared blankly up at the ceiling. Legs bent at the knee, arms resting loosely outstretched above his head after his last bout of air drumming perhaps two songs ago. His response is delayed as his body comes to life, arms now stretching while he twists around until he’s rolled onto his stomach. “Oh yeah, well, it was dad’s. Mom doesn’t like me taking it from the apartment.”

Sal’s attention transitions from his best friend half sitting up now, to the guitar propped up in the corner. A few scratches were visible but it seemed to be in decent condition otherwise, gently used if anything, a hard plastic case resting beside it. He knew Larry’s dad, Jim, had a fondness for music that had clearly passed down to his son, but Sal didn’t know he ever played. The news wasn’t a surprise though, considering everything else he knew about the man. One of the tamer facts about him, in fact.

His question is obvious, but he asks it anyway, “So… why’s it here? She gonna be pissed when she finds out you’ve snagged it?”

“Nah,” Larry yawns, forcing his body up until he’s upright entirely. “Told her I was on a mission to lay down some serious tunes. Gotta bring it back in a few days though. Or at least have Ash snap a picture so mom knows it’s not starving and hasn’t been abducted.”

The declaration has Sal laughing, a muffled series of sounds coming out from behind his prosthesis. Adjusting the mask, he’s still chuckling softly as he jokingly proposes, “We could put a broken string in the mailbox to freak her out. Slip a snapped pick under her bedroom door.” He leans over to the boombox, hitting play so the next song could start up, settling against the wooden wall behind him comfortably again.

It was mid afternoon. Perhaps later. Sal was a terrible judge of time to begin with and when it was just the two of them relaxing in the treehouse, it was never a shock when the sun started to set and stomachs started grumbling for dinner. They’d bike to their apartment with Todd in a little while, ideally in time to sit down for a shared meal with him and his boyfriend. Hear about how their classes had gone, discuss plans for the upcoming weekend. Remind one another of any important dates for the next week or so.

If not, if they missed dinner, that was alright too. Sal never felt overly pressed about meals, and Larry was the same. They could always walk down to the corner store and test their fate with some ready-made hotdogs or something. It wouldn’t be the first time. Buy a cup of noodles or frozen pizza to drag back to the apartment, making bets along the way over what Todd would say about their certainly unhealthy food choices.

The two best friends were gremlins when it came to food honestly. Once, Sal kept track of how long Larry went without drinking water. By the third day, he gave in, pushing a bottle at his friend, saying he was concerned about the guy’s undoubtedly dehydrated body. He would’ve had a headache by the end of that first day, if not a migraine. Of course, Larry claimed he felt fine – but he drank the water anyway, if nothing else but to appease his best friend’s concerns.

It doesn’t cross Sal’s mind to ask about what Larry’s been working on until a third of the album later. Although he simply turned the music down instead of shutting it off completely this time, knowing if he hit pause too many times he’d awaken the beast buried in his friend’s subconscious. “When do I get to hear the new song? What’s it like? Stab in the dark that it’s not metal, heh.”

During the last few minutes, or maybe it was longer ago now, Larry had taken out a notebook. Sitting cross-legged with the pad of paper stretching over one knee, he stays bent over with a pencil in hand, sketching away. “Ehh, it’s nothing special… Not finished, not sure I’m gonna. Don’t think I got the knack for acoustic like dad did.”

The admission comes across as...odd. Something wasn’t quite right about how Larry had said it, his tone perhaps too flat and strained as if he had carefully selected his words rather than allow them to flow out naturally. But Sal doesn’t push the matter further. They shared everything together, whether it was art, new music, homework, or secrets Sal would absolutely struggle to keep. He’d hear the new song sooner or later, and he wasn’t about to tamper with his friend’s artistic process in the meantime.

He stands up though, noting that it must be getting late considering how low the sun was in the sky. Sal fetches his backpack, slipping it onto his shoulders while he waits for the current song to finish up before shutting the boombox off for good. From the floor, there’s a quiet grunt from Larry as he protests the newfound silence, still bent over his sketches, chin cradled by an arm propped up on his knee.

“C’mon, Lar-bear,” Sal teases, walking around to draw the makeshift curtains closed over the windows, not fazed by the cobwebs and dust settling into the folds of the tattered fabric. The treehouse was in need of some tender loving care, or at least a cursory cleaning. It’d be a good idea to tidy the place up before the fast-approaching winter.

They weren’t spending as much time up here nowadays, between work, classes, and time spent at the apartment. The thought forms a lump in Sal’s throat, although it shouldn’t have...there was nothing sad about growing up, spending their time in new places. The treehouse was one of the few almost exclusively kept between the two best friends though. A certain nostalgia shielded the wooden structure, a place they could always return to when the normal stresses of life were getting too heavy to bear. Even if Addison Apartments was long gone, they’d always have this place.

It was natural for the pair to default to their sanctuary – after all, it was where they had explored all sorts of new things growing up.

Sal finally agreeing to getting high under Larry’s vigilant watch, _ just _ in case he had an adverse reaction. He hadn’t though, nor had he the second, third, or fourth time. Lounging around the hard wooden floor, asking his best friend more than once why they didn’t have carpeting installed. He felt so sleepy, wanting to nap (carpet or not), but he tried his best to stay awake so he could ask his more experienced friend all sorts of questions. Each was more important than the last, gems such as “Why do we even _ need _ the treehouse to be so tall? Why can’t it be on the ground?”

And the treehouse was where Sal confided in Larry his little secret about kissing Ash for the first time. The only time, as it was, but the memory was pleasant nonetheless. His best friend had nearly screeched, insisting they celebrate with “some rockin’ bangers and whatever the shit booze I can find in the basement.” In the end, they drank flat soda pop mixed with cheap vodka, but Sal had felt like a king all the same.

The memories weren’t always the best, however.

Calling Larry in the middle of the night, his voice cracking over the walkie-talkie as he frantically begged his friend to come to the treehouse. Bring bandages. He kept a hand pressed to his bleeding thigh for what felt like an eternity. But Larry had rushed to their little haven as fast as he could, his expression revealing he knew exactly what was going on as he crossed the single room. Sal had cried while his friend carefully cleaned the blood from his legs, promising in hushed tones that he’d be alright. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, and it was late. He was tired. Sleep would help.

That was the last time Sal took a blade to his skin. The urges were still there, creeping up even years later when he started feeling down. He couldn’t forget that expression on Larry’s face though, the sorrowful downturn tug to his lips, heavy-lidded eyes letting him know that he almost had expected this to happen one day. That look alone kept Sal from hurting himself, he couldn’t do that again.

Sal allows the recollections to fade from his mind. The good and the bad had shaped him over the years. Shaped both of them, made them into the people they were today. And if nothing else, the treehouse was a steady reminder of how far they had come.

Normally, he wouldn’t be so pushy about leaving, but it wasn’t a smart idea to be riding home in the dark. They had already been chastised once for such behavior. Local law enforcement wasn’t much a fan of them hanging close to the abandoned apartments at night either. “Neil’s going to eat our dinner if we don’t get going...”

Crossing behind Larry, Sal reaches down to pull the long, dark river of hair around his shoulder, admiring the faint shimmer even now in the low lighting. His fingers linger for a moment as the last of the strands fall away, but he retracts his hand rather quickly as his friend closes up the notebook he had been doodling inside. Lithe digits curl into a fist as if trapping the feeling of the soft locks inside, silently musing over how much better his friend was taking care of his hair these days.

Sal takes a step back to give Larry room to stand, blinking as a small scrap of paper flutters to the floor. He snatches it up almost instinctively, stuffing it into his pocket while he walks towards the ladder. Sure, there was a trash can in the treehouse, but neither of them cared to empty it unless the damn thing started to reek.

“One of these days I’m gonna let myself _ drop _ halfway down this stupid thing,” Larry groans, adding, “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Sal follows down the ladder behind him, snorting. “Pretty sure you’d break a leg at least, and I don’t think I could carry you up to our third story apartment.” The thought was certainly entertaining, but decidedly impractical.

There’s a quiet _ thump _ as Larry’s feet hit the ground, soft crunching of leaves following as he starts walking away from the tree. “Not with that attitude, little dude.”

♫ ♬ ♫ ♬ ♫

Dinner had been a frozen pizza after all, loaded up with extra pepperoni to the point where Todd was bemoaning the sight. With Larry’s insistence of washing the slices down with cola, the more responsible roommate had started on one of his rants on how eating healthy was important, even at their age. The other two, Neil and Sal, watched with restrained smiles as Larry continued to gently poke and prod at Todd’s patience until he finally gave up on the matter.

Other than that, the evening was quiet, with Sal retiring to his room after a short shower.

Dropping his clothes from the day onto the heaping pile of other laundry he really..._ really _ needed to get to one of these days, he remembers the paper in his pocket. He digs around until he finds the small scrap, knowing if he didn’t take it out now he’d certainly forget and end up with a gross mess upon opening the washing machine. Even if it was a tiny slip of paper, he hated that nasty texture, ugh.

Figuring it was some nonsense note Larry had written for himself, Sal brings it over to the wastebasket by the door. Probably should give it a quick look over in case it seemed worthy enough to save, especially when considering how scatterbrained Larry was to begin with. He didn’t need more of an excuse to forget or misplace something. It felt like second nature at this point for Sal to practically be his personal calendar, keeping track of appointments or other bits of scheduling.

Sal glances the paper once over, then a second time to confirm what he had just read. It wasn’t a note, but rather... song lyrics? A poem? It must be, although whatever it was had been ripped from the rest of the sheet, part of the lines cut off. Quietly, he recites the words aloud as if to better solidify their existence. “‘...– kind’a way to face the burning heat? I just think about my baby, I’m so full of love I could barely eat.’”

He feels warmth blossom in his face, and not currently protected by his prosthesis, he brings a hand up to touch his cheek. Whatever this was, it was definitely more intimate than anything Larry usually wrote about. Sal worries he’s intruded on something too private, the uneasiness pooling in his gut confirming that suspicion. No wonder his friend had dodged around the question inquiring about the piece.

It’s not enough for him to throw the paper away that fast though, too impossibly nosy to act as if more lyrics weren’t potentially scribbled on the back. Sure enough, in Larry’s messy scrawl there’s more written down, and again, Sal recites the words. His voice even more hushed this time, he mumbles, “‘...– once from the cherry tree. ‘Cause my baby’s sweet as can be, she give me toothaches just from kissin’ me.’”

Sal’s face flushes more crimson than before, although his stomach flips uncomfortably. Something about what he had just read felt...disappointing. The words were so tender and loving but he felt immediate discouragement knowing they were intended for someone else. No – betrayal, that was what he was feeling.

There’s a kind of possessiveness bubbling up, something he had never cared to acknowledge. It wasn’t the first time he felt this clawing jealousy in relation to his best friend. Admittedly, it had been a while since it had wracked him so strongly, enough to have his whole body feeling tense and on the verge of shaking. He didn’t like it, he didn’t want to think about it any longer. He wishes he hadn’t found the paper. Crumbling it up, he drops it into the trash finally, turning towards his bed.

Crawling under the covers, Sal feels miserable. Whatever he had just read – that poem or song, whatever it was, ugh – wasn’t meant for his eyes. He didn’t like feeling as though he had stomped all over his best friend’s privacy, and he’s already wondering if he should confess to Larry what he had seen. Would that lead to hearing about whoever proved to be the inspiration and muse for this writing though?

Sal wasn’t sure he wanted to have that conversation.


	2. Verse Two

The weekend rolls around, and Sal had done an excellent job of pushing the paper out of his mind. Right up until Larry asks if he wants to work on cleaning the treehouse after work Saturday afternoon. It made for a frustrating and extremely lengthy shift, Sal nearly dropping a heavy box on his foot more than once. He couldn’t get it out of his mind now, struggling to make it through the work day without causing too many problems. Ah well, at least he had Sunday off.

He’s more than a bit surprised to see Larry’s bike is already at the treehouse when he gets there himself, figuring his friend would be dragging his feet. He wasn’t overly overly fond of cleaning even if it was a necessary evil sometimes. Even as a young adult, Larry was never short on excuses as to why he couldn’t afford a couple of minutes to take out the trash.

Taking in a sharp breath from behind his mask, Sal gives himself a moment before beginning to climb the ladder. Part of the reason he had done a good job keeping the scrap of lyrics out of his thoughts was because he had spent most of the week avoiding Larry. But up in the treehouse, they’d be alone, with little to sufficiently distract Sal into keep the more pressing topic from crawling back to his mind.

Naturally, music’s playing loudly in the clubhouse of sorts. It provides a small amount of relief, knowing they likely wouldn’t be trying to talk over it that much. Between the two of them, Sal tended to be the more probable candidate for casual chatter, and that was certainly off the table today.

He shrugs his coat off, thankful as well for the warmer autumn day. Most of the week had been too chilly to even entertain thoughts of working around the treehouse. Tugging his sneakers off, Sal sets them by the doorway, leaving them beside Larry’s as was typical. He snatches a rag from the bucket his best friend must have brought up with various cleaning supplies, and gets to work dusting off the shelving unit along the wall.

As predicted, the two friends work for a while without talking. In the brief blip of silence between two songs, Larry had asked how work went, but Sal had responded with merely a shrug. There wouldn’t be much to say even if he had been in a better mood anyway.

“Hey – remember when we crashed here the first time? Parents got so upset. Still don’t know why they didn’t think to check up here.” Larry had ended the sentence with a hearty laugh, and Sal catches his head tilting back in amusement from the corner of his eye.

It’s not enough to lure him into a conversation right now, irritation just bubbling under his skin it felt like, but he wouldn’t deny the memory was fond.

It had been July, the first summer Sal had been living with his dad at Addison Apartments. After an afternoon and evening of casual underage drinking, the two friends had settled onto the floor with a pile of comics. Nothing fancy, and in the end, nothing of great interest actually, just some old issues snagged for a cheap price at the local shop. But they had a grand time trying to read through them while intoxicated.

Larry had pointed out all of the ridiculous anatomy, and Sal nitpicked the poor writing. Although he couldn’t quite remember the panel now, he knew there had been _ something _ so absurd, he had collapsed into tears over how hard he laughed. Practically rolling on the floor while Larry comically tried to reenact the scene, complete with an over-the-top, mocking voice and sweeping gestures.

Sleeping in the treehouse became more frequent after that, and not limited to the warm summer nights either. They had dragged sleeping bags and heavy blankets up there, much to each of their parent’s chagrin. One late autumn evening, they even discussed looking into space heaters, coming to the rational conclusion that could be potentially hazardous.

Since moving into the apartment with Todd though, they hadn’t stayed overnight at the treehouse.

The thought makes Sal’s heart sink, perhaps a little too bothered by the sudden realization. Those colder nights had always been… so cozy, so welcomed. It had become such a regular occurrence for the two friends to share blankets, Sal in particular getting too cold without the heat shared from Larry’s body beside his own. It always felt like he was being protected, something about the unintentionally intimate setting making him feel–… Just Larry’s, no one else’s.

Tearing himself back to the present, Sal realizes he’s been dusting off the same stack of books for who knows how long. It was obvious Larry hadn’t noticed though, still busy working on the other side of the room. The acoustic guitar was still sitting there, propped up against the wall alongside some sketchbooks and empty soda cans.

“Weren’t you supposed to bring _ that _back to your mom by now?” Sal questions, head bobbing in the general direction of the instrument, his voice coming out bitter for such an otherwise innocent seeming question.

Larry stops what he had been doing, a broom handle clutched between his hands. He stares at Sal for a moment, obviously perplexed by the sharp tone. “Uh… yeah, I guess…”

Huffing from behind his mask, Sal returns to dusting without saying a word, perhaps applying more pressure than needed to clean up the metal cabinet. The surface creaked under his hand, warping slightly as he rubbed the damn thing down, teeth grinding as he more or less hoped this wave of jealousy would pass already.

He knows the song currently playing is the last one on the CD, meaning someone would have to restart it or pop something else into the stereo. Ugh, another moment Larry could take to try and rope him into talking, which meant another opportunity to bring up that stupid song. Sal hates how angry he feels, it was so foreign, normally so laid-back, not one to allow his emotions to take over this aggressively.

His brief flicker of a distracted state is ample time for the song to come to its conclusion, and Larry’s already at the stereo before Sal has a chance to register his movement. So he turns back to the cabinet, stretching up on his toes to try and dust off the higher up portion. Again, the metal starts croaking beneath the applied pressure.

“Shit, careful with that old thing.”

Hearing footsteps coming closer doesn’t stop Sal from dusting the cabinet off with irritation fueling his actions. A hand grabs at his wrist though, and he quickly snatches it away. Turning around to face his best friend now standing directly in front of him, he snaps. “What? I’m going to bust through the metal with my tiny little hands?”

Larry’s visibly confused, brow furrowed and lips sealed in a thin line. He’s still holding the broom in one hand, although his grip loosens until he allows it to fall against the wall. “What the fuck happened at work? You’re never this pissy unless something _ real _ stupid annoying went down.”

Sal knows he shouldn’t say it. He knows he’s in a bad mood and if he starts to voice his thoughts, he won’t stop until he’s caused a huge riff between the two of them. And for what reason, what was the logic? He was mad because his friend had feelings for someone? Sal felt like an asshole for admitting such a thing internally, he could only imagine how it’d feel to say the words aloud.

“‘Cause my baby's sweet as can be, she give me toothaches just from kissin' me.’”

The line of lyrical words had slipped out before Sal was able to stop himself, watching with a sharp eye as Larry’s puzzled expression starts to crumble. His olive complexion reddens, features shifting to something defensive. Arms crossing over his chest, he doesn’t hesitate before asking in an unwavering tone, “Where’d you hear that?”

Sal snorts, reaching up to undo the buckles on his prosthesis. He couldn’t bear the feeling of it against his scarred face right now, lowering the mask and setting it down on the nearby shelving unit with a clatter. He was loath to think the full weight of his betrayal wasn’t coming across loud and clear. “Fell outta your notebook a few days ago. New song, I’m guessing? So who is she? Am I going to meet her, or –”

“I was going –” Larry swiftly interrupts, sighing heavily in a deflating action almost immediately. His arms unfold and fall to his sides until he habitually shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. After what feels like too long, he finally finishes the previously started statement, “I was gonna ask if you wanted to hear it tonight. The song, I mean.”

Anticipated disgust never arrives.

Sal had assumed he’d cringe at the very _ idea _ of hearing what else was attached to those few strung together utterances he had memorized throughout the week. As much as he seemingly despised them, they wouldn’t stop digging into his consciousness, playing over and over like… like they were meant for _ him. _ And selfishly, he enjoyed it in the end, repeating the tender lyrics to himself as if they had been written just for him and no one else.

Sal chews at his tongue as he leaves his best friend hanging. Larry hadn’t moved from his spot, standing in the fixed position not even slouched over like he was normally. He was tense.

“Alright. Fine.”

The blatant edge to his voice hadn’t been lost on Larry, and in spite of the relief his face now reflected, he grumbles, “I’m not playin’ it while you’re pissed at me...”

Turning on his heels, Sal goes over to the mess of pillows and cushions the two of them had long hauled up into the treehouse. He collapses into the pile, adjusting his seating arrangements until he’s settled into something resembling comfort. He says nothing, smugly satisfied in knowing Larry could see his true facial expressions now, free from the usual shield of his mask.

“Mannn, Sally Face…” Larry whines long and drawn out, slowly walking over to fetch the guitar residing in the corner. He pulls a stool along, setting himself up in the empty space in front of where Sal was sitting. Guitar resting on his lap, he leans against the wooden frame, a frown pulled across his face. “Well… the song’s all for you... Hope that makes it better, baby blue.”

What Larry had just said doesn’t register in Sal’s head, not yet. Certainly he had heard the words but it’s as if his brain refused to acknowledge them. He watches as Larry fusses with the guitar briefly, checking to see if it’s in tune. It is. Sal figures he had been practicing earlier in the day, but a habit was a habit.

The first chords are struck, perhaps not as perfectly as they could’ve been with how nervous Larry seemed to be right now. Firm taps to the body of the guitar follow after a handful of strums along the strings, a further syncopated beat between sets of chords as a rhythmic pattern starts to emerge.  
  
Larry’s voice faintly cracks as he starts singing. _ “Boys workin’ on empty – is that the kind’a way to face the burning heat? I just think about my baby; I’m so full of love I could barely eat.” _ A few chords are struck, and he continues, _ “There’s nothing sweeter than my baby. I’d never want once from the cherry tree. ‘Cause my baby’s sweet as can be, she give me toothaches just from kissin’ me.” _

Larry’s energy picks up, singing more emotionally as he transitions to the chorus, _ “When my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth. No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her.” _

He seemed more confident the longer he went on, and Sal quickly gets lost in the song. Neither of them had ever played anything like this, and the realization has him remembering back to what Larry had said as he started. This song was... for him?

Exhaling softly, Sal feels dizzy. His face and ears are warm and he suddenly wishes he had the comfort of his prosthesis again to cover his face. Breath a little heavy, strained as he repeatedly forgets to breathe while continuing to listen to his best friend sing so passionately, he almost struggles to function.

_ “When my time comes around…” _

Larry’s singing through the chorus again, and Sal feels like he’s melting into the cushions. His friend glances up from the guitar for a moment, making eye contact just long enough for a smile to flash across his face. It faintly distorts his voice but only for a second, and the moment seems so charged, drawing Sal in deeper. The musician once again focuses on his guitar though, perhaps to prevent himself from getting distracted.

_ “My baby never fret none, about what my hands and my body done. If the lord don’t forgive me, I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me.” _

The song lyrics fade into the background. Sal’s still focusing, of course he is, but he feels like he had been dropped into a dream. Whatever this was...it wasn’t–? It couldn’t actually be happening. His long thought about but never acted upon crush for Larry had gone on for years without there ever being any kind of reciprocation. That’s what this was, right?

_ “In the lowland plot I was free, heaven and hell were words to me.” _

It didn’t feel...possible. His mind struggled to accept it, silently starting to pick at the lyrics despite how badly Sal wished he would simply enjoy the music. If absolutely nothing else, his friend had worked hard on this, and it was undeniable that a degree of vulnerability was present. They might share everything, but that didn’t mean they always opened up so fully about the more sacred aspects of their lives, much less in such an unfamiliar way.

If someone had told Sal either of them would confess their feelings to one another through some screeching metal song, he wouldn't bat an eye. But this…  
  
_ “... No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her.” _

Sal pulls himself back to song, the lyrics fading out, rhythmic tapping on the instrument’s body still continuing as the last chords are strummed. Larry hums along for a moment, complementing the final notes until his hands pull away from the guitar’s neck. He holds the instrument on his lap, not yet moving from where he sat.

There’s a fast stretching silence between the two of them after the song’s finished, Sal unable to ignore how loud his own breathing sounds thrumming in his ears. His functioning eye is focused on his best friend, still sitting across from him on the stool, looking increasingly uncomfortable with the tension of the room. Clearing his throat, he quickly stands up, a flurry of long hair spilling along his neck as he turns to find the guitar’s case. “I-I should bring this back to mom. Thanks for listening, Sal.”

Scrambling to stand up, struggling only slightly on the disorganized array of pillows, Sal plants himself between Larry and the ladder that led out of the treehouse. He knew his best friend well enough to predict he’d be bolting in a second if given the chance. Not that Sal could truly stop him if he wanted to leave, his barely 5’6” frame nothing compared to Larry’s 6’1”.

In spite of this, the fixed position in front of the only exit leaves Larry clutching the guitar case in front of his body. Eyes wide as his expression turns to something fearful, perhaps one of near-panic, he turns his gaze away as if it’ll provide some manner of solace. A trapped animal, struggling to accept its untimely fate nevertheless with nowhere to run.

Sal truly doesn’t know what to do or say, but he can’t leave his best friend standing in miserable, insufferable silence, tears now welling up in his eyes. It was clear he was holding onto the plastic case hard enough for his arms to be tense, muscles flexed visibly even under the thicker fabric of his hoodie.  
  
“...you need a new sweatshirt, dumbass, that ratty thing’s gonna rip.” Sal takes a sharp breath as he walks over to Larry, carefully pulling at the guitar case until it’s released into his grasp with some reluctance. And even more carefully, he sets the beloved instrument on the ground, straightening his back up once more so he could stare up at his friend.

Shaking hands trail up the front of the red hoodie, Sal digging his fingers into the fabric just under Larry’s collarbone. He tugs lightly at first, looking up at him expectantly, his own breath held captive by their closeness. Another tug, harder this time as he mutters, “That was really rad, okay…”

It’s a relief when Larry leans down, and the hesitancy they both push into the shared kiss fades away quickly. Sal reaches to hook his arms around Larry’s neck, standing on the balls of his feet to accomplish the desired position. He exhales with as much of a smile as his scarred face could manage when he feels strong arms wrapping around him in return. He’s being carried, the sound of a foot colliding with the hard plastic guitar case and resulting curse against his lips causing his smile to strengthen.

Larry sets Sal down onto the cushions, and dark strands of hair fall onto him as he’s joined in the pillow mess. He hasn’t pulled his arms away yet, not compelled enough to detach his hold around his best friend, no intentions of letting him go now that he finally had him after all these years. He feels soft lips brush against his neck, a voice low and breathy asking, “...rad, huh?”

“Wonderful,” Sal swiftly relabels his previous statement, hands shifting to cup Larry’s jaw as he had pulled away. Heavy-lidded eyes once again stare down, almost bringing Sal back to that memorable night when he had hurt himself so badly. Not quite the same, no. He could see on that night how his best friend loved him; they’d always support each other no matter how terribly they fucked up. That was important, it meant a great deal to him. But this was a different kind of love, something he had hungered for a long time.

He wouldn’t deny he enjoyed how Larry was looking down at him with such adoration in this moment. His nose crooked and pointed, dark bags from insomnia eternally tugging at his eyes, lips maybe too thin and eyebrows too thick for either to be conventionally attractive. Still, Sal had always felt drawn to his features. “It was amazing. Really. I-… I don’t know what else to say.”

Another soft kiss is pressed to Sal’s damaged lips, an action in and of itself worthy of bringing tears to his eyes. He leans into it eagerly, an almost fervent need driving him to get as much out of the contact as he possibly could. It was as if Larry would disappear; Sal _ had _ to take advantage of the opportunity presented. Just in case.

But neither of them is going anywhere. A tangled mess of limbs on the floor of the treehouse now, Sal rests his head against Larry’s chest, softly humming the recited song to the best of his ability. His face is warm, head flooded by all sorts of questions and feelings he debated voicing. He’s not bothered enough to say much at all, only curious to a nagging degree in questioning one thing. “...you didn’t _ just _ write that, did you?”

Too understanding of how one another’s minds worked, Larry translates the roundabout inquiry without skipping a beat. “Nah, couple years ago…” His voice trails off, shifting his position ever so slightly until he’s able to press a kiss to Sal’s head. “Thought about using it for the band, so uh, figured I’d try to be stealthy so you wouldn’t know it was… Err, y’know…” Again, he trails off, this time quietly laughing.

“I would’ve known.” Sal’s declaration was firm, certain. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind he would’ve witnessed what he had just seen and understood the true intentions behind it, no matter how hard Larry tried to cover it up. Those emotions couldn’t be masked so easily.

Sitting up so that he could look down at his friend, Sal takes care in tucking loose blue strands behind one ear, scanning his Larry’s face for any clue on what was to happen next. This experience wouldn’t be another to add to the treehouse’s vault-like capacity, tucked away for future recollections and nostalgia-fueled afternoons and that alone. Sal refused to give up the taste he felt lingering on his lips, the longing finally quieted in his heart.

“‘Great art doesn’t need to be beautiful, as long as it conveys genuine emotion,’” Sal recites from memory, a mantra of sorts he had repeated to himself endlessly throughout their high school years. Something Larry had said to him once about his art. Leaning in for another kiss, he takes his time before pulling back, wanting to choose his words carefully.

Even as confident as he feels about them, there’s hesitancy laced into the words brought about from shyness still. “...although that was beautiful, too. I just–... I wanna be sure the emotion part’s not going to go away. I miss our sleepovers here; Those nights, I always felt like I was especially important to you...”

“Sally Face, baby blue,” Larry all but whispers, the loose hold around Sal tightening as he’s lured back down to lay against his chest.  
Larry clears his throat, humming a few notes, ensuring he’d hit the right one. His voice comes out low and raspy with how quiet he is, but he softly sings anyway, dragging a blanket up to cover Sal on top of him. _ “No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to you.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are thoroughly, thoroughly appreciated. I appreciate all feedback greatly, it means everything when folks take a minute or two to share what they enjoyed about my work. 
> 
> I'm always up for talking about these two! I really just found it soothing to write this so I hope I was able to share that comfort with others. And again, be sure to listen to Hozier's "Work Song" to fully enjoy the piece ♡


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